Master of Puppets
by Night of the Living Monkey
Summary: The Penguin hires a ventriloquist who may not be the one actually pulling the strings during the act.


Foray into _Gotham_! Yay!

I figured, hey, the main (hotter) characters are getting plenty of, ahem, love in this section already, so let's give the freaky, middle-aged losers and their killer dolls a go. And thus this fic came to be. Now on to it!

* * *

With a final white dot of paint, Arnold Wesker breathed life into his creation. After weeks of carving, tailoring, millinery, and painting, the newest piece of his act was done.

Arnold put down the paintbrush and exhaled. He wiped sweat from his brow. While he was sure birthing an actual human was even more difficult, there was no denying that he'd put the _labor_ in labor of love.

And just like the aftermath of birth, there was still one step left to take.

Naming the baby.

Like most expecting parents, Arnold had considered his baby's name during gestation. He just hadn't settled on one. He supposed he was waiting to see the final product, to see if any name floated up from the pool and attached to the fresh face.

None did.

If anything, all the potentials now seemed like...crap.

Arnold sighed. It usually wasn't this hard. Though, to be fair, he'd never put so much effort into creating a dummy. Not that his other characters were slap-dash or anything. He'd stabbed his fingers so many times sewing the sequins onto Sugar's dress that not even a lifetime diabetic could compete. And the fumes from dyeing Pinky his namesake had probably buried some future cancer seeds in his lungs. And then there was-

The nostalgic trip through carcinogenic fumes and needle-sticks was interrupted by the ringing of Arnold's cell phone. He hopped up from his work bench and went in search of the phone. By the time he found it, the phone had rang and vibrated itself off the table, and Arnold had to crawl under the table to retrieve it.

"Wesker Entertainment," Arnold answered.

He listened to the caller, nodding to a majority of what was said. By the time the call was over, Arnold had a smile on his face. This was just the kind of opportunity he'd been hoping for.

* * *

If Arnold had been the father of humans instead of ventriloquist dummies, he could have gotten his own show on TLC. He had painstakingly and lovingly created thirty-one—scratch that, thirty-_two_—dummies. And while it gave him plenty of choices and options so he could customize depending on what sort of show he was putting on, it took a long time to make those choices sometimes.

Especially this time.

After all, it wasn't a ten-kid birthday party for a five-year-old boy, who could be entertained endlessly with Ralph the dummy that could vomit on cue.

Or so Arnold assumed.

Maybe the new management of Fish Mooney's club was lower-brow than she'd been.

Arnold sighed.

* * *

Two nights later, Arnold and his stacked suitcases were lead backstage by a large man who did not look particularly happy to see them. Noting the holstered gun the man wore, Arnold's reluctance tripled. This was the first performance he'd ever put on where people were armed.

Waiting for Arnold behind the curtain was a man who could hardly have looked more different from the escort. He was young, his black hair stuck up wildly, and when he approached Arnold, he walked with a limp so painful it almost made Arnold wince.

"You're Oswald Cobblepot?" Arnold asked.

The young man shot out his hand, and Arnold shook it.

"Thank you for agreeing to perform on such short notice," Oswald said.

"It's an honor to have the opportunity. I've never even been inside Fish's and-"

The pleasant smile on the young man's face vanished as suddenly as a magician's assistant. "Oswald's. It's Oswald's now."

Arnold felt a ball of fear lodge in the back of his throat. "Sorry, of course, sorry. Slip of the tongue."

The thunderstorm passed and Oswald's grin rose from the dead. "Happens to all of us. I'll give you a few minutes to prepare. When you're ready, give the word and we'll raise the curtain. Come on, Butch."

The man with the gun nodded. "After you, Mr. Cobblepot."

Arnold took a deep, shuddering breath the second the pair were out of sight. Butch and his blatant gun were intimidating enough, but Oswald was, despite his youth and pleasant smile, an absolute viper of a man just below the surface.

If not for the fact he knew it would end in his body getting tossed into the harbor, Arnold considered making a puppet likeness of the man.

* * *

Five minutes later, the curtain pulled back and Arnold was given his first look at the audience. Hmm, definitely not his usual demographic. Actually, Arnold couldn't fathom just who exactly would consider this group of young people a "usual demographic." There was such a conglomerate of people, from a woman who looked like she'd stolen her clothes from 1920, to a punk-rocker decked out in torn leather and sporting a mohawk, that Arnold wasn't sure what could draw them together.

He hoped, but doubted, it was a love of ventriloquism.

Arnold discovered very quickly he'd been wise to have his doubts. Though, maybe he did find something the crowd had in common.

A raging hate of ventriloquism.

And a love of booing and throwing things to show their displeasure.

Arnold ducked an empty glass and wondered if he would still get paid if he grabbed his dummies and ran screaming into the night. Yes, he'd promised at least an hour of entertainment, but there were extenuating circumstances he hadn't expected, namely a full and violent revolt by the audience.

"This is worse than that comedian last week!" someone shouted.

"Yeah!"

He hadn't been there for the comedian, but to Arnold, this was worse than the bar-mitzvah where everyone came down with food poisoning and the newly minted Jewish man had thrown up in Arnold's case of dummies. It had taken days and dozens of baths to finally banish the stench from Pinky's hair.

Another glass, this one not so empty, careened towards Arnold and his dummies. He side-stepped the glass, but was splashed with its contents. When the patrons were so angry they were throwing their cocktails, it was time to leave. Maybe he could wheedle a small fee out of Oswald, if only to cover the gas he'd used to get to the club. If not, so it went. Arnold was not waiting to sustain an injury. He'd take his pride and his dummies and try to book a birthday party or two for the weekend to recoup his-

"Hey, dummy, where do you think you're goin'?"

Arnold froze and blinked stupidly. Who had said that? It sounded like it was coming from the stage, but a quick glance told him he was alone. Not to mention, it was, given the riot in front of him, ridiculous that anyone would want him to stick around for an encore.

"Yeah, you, the moron who couldn't find his own ass with a map! Look over here!"

There were a few giggles from the audience. Even in his confusion, Arnold took a moment to appreciate that change in demeanor.

"Okay, you still ain't gettin' it. Left. No, your other left. Warm, warmer, now look down. Good work, dummy."

Arnold found himself staring down at his suitcase of puppets. What was going on here? Had someone installed a speaker in the suitcase? Why? How?

"Don't you freakin' tell me you already forgot about me!"

Arnold flinched and felt goosebumps break out along his arms. That voice, it was _his_. Deeper, and with a Chicago accent, but not that warped. The voice he did for Sugar was far more different from his usual speaking voice. The issue wasn't that the voice was odd, it was that he, somehow, hadn't realized he was throwing his voice or talking at all.

"Come on, don't just stand there. Get me outta here!"

And he was doing it again.

At least the audience seemed to like it. They'd stopped throwing things and making threats against Arnold and his family going back several generations. And it didn't appear that anyone in said audience realized how badly Arnold was freaking himself out. Not that they looked like the type of people who would be able to give any sound psychological or comforting advice.

If he stood in front of the case or ran crying to the nearest mental health facility, Arnold figured he'd lose the audience and any possibility for a payday. Tamping down the fear he was having a mental breakdown, Arnold opened the suitcase that held his puppets.

"Get this fat-ass offa me! You gonna have anyone sit on my face, make it Sugar!"

Arnold blushed and hoped the spotlight and his already sweaty face hid it. He did birthday parties, and anything remotely approaching that level of raunchiness would end with a bunch of soccer moms beating him senseless and running him over with an SUV. He could say, right hand to God, he had no idea where this was coming from.

"Not that you'd know nothin' about _that_, you mug. Hey, tell you what, after the show, I'll give you the birds and the bees speech! Might even find you a dame. Miracles happen!"

The audience hadn't even seen the new personality, but they were lapping it up. Arnold knew he'd discovered something that united the diverse group: a love of seeing him humiliate himself.

Like every retailer espoused, the customer was always right. If they wanted the foul-mouthed, thus unseen dummy, Arnold had to give it to them. He shifted the puppet from on top of his newest creation, and pulled the dummy out, raising him high, like it was _The Lion King_. Without the G-rating or the cute cub.

"Woo, what a crowd we got here tonight. Hey, folks, my name's- Can you imagine this mook forgot to give me a name? Yeah, I bet you can."

There was genuine laughter. Arnold had done a lot of shows, and had gotten grumpy children to smile or even play along, but turning around an audience of misfits that wanted to eat him alive was proof that, as the dummy had said, miracles happen.

"Can't get good help these days, can you? Eh, maybe _some_ of you can. Like you, blondie there in the front table. You flash them puppies, you get whatever you want."

Said blondie lowered her head and reached to cover her bare shoulders with a cardigan she had somehow forgotten to buy and then wear out for the evening. She was forced to instead cover herself by crossing her arms over her plunging neckline. Her boyfriend glared claymores at Arnold and his perverted puppet.

The dummy was unperturbed by the glare, but he did miss the cleavage. So he went questing for more.

Before he could find an acceptable replacement, he stumbled across something that amused him almost as much as the perky chest of the just-legal-to-drink: the punk-rocker.

"Look at that, dummy. Now you can feel proud about somethin'."

"Why's that?" Arnold asked, providing the first real interaction he'd ever had with the puppet.

"At least you know your old man's name!"

The punk flipped Arnold and his disparaging partner the bird. He decided that didn't express himself clearly enough, and added the other finger. Despite the anger, there was a look of clear hurt on his face. After waving the fingers back and forth for a minute, he dropped them and stomped for the exit.

"There's no reason to be that mean," Arnold said as he watched the young punk storm out.

"You wanna go cuddle him? What am I talking about? Sure you do! It ain't like you'll ever get yourself a moll."

"I don't think that's how being gay works."

"Haha, what'd I say? We got ourselves an expert!" The dummy raised a hand and set it against his forehead, as though he was looking into the sun. "Hell, I'd say we got a whole room full of expert-"

Whatever slur the dummy was about to unleash, he was censored by the sharp bang of a gun. The noise made Arnold scream and throw his arms in the air. The dummy flew off of his hand and landed in a heap on the stage. Arnold grabbed the wooden horror show by the leg and dragged it away.

Arnold wasn't the only one disturbed by the gunshot. While Oswald's club was no stranger to violence, active gun-play was rare enough to scare the audience under the tables, and to draw the Penguin and his bodyguard out to investigate.

"What's happening?" Oswald asked from his position behind Butch.

"Mr. Zsasz is here," Butch replied. He lowered his gun.

Oswald stuck his head out from behind Butch. "What's he doing here?"

"Shooting puppets."

"Why?"

"Because you, somehow, managed to outdo the comedian from last Monday!" Zsasz said. "Where do you find these people? Tell me, so I can burn the place down."

"His online reviews were irreproachable," Oswald said.

"For children's parties!" Zsasz scowled. "Penguin, you're through hiring the entertainment. Nobody gets on stage without Butch's approval."

Oswald blustered, "But-but he's _my_ slave!"

"And he, unlike you, knows what he's doing. So no more ventriloquists, no more comedians, and keep your mother off the stage!"

For the first time in his life, Victor Zsasz was given a round of applause.

* * *

Arnold Wesker slammed the door to his apartment. His heart was still beating at stroke-inducing levels. He was sweating from everywhere it was possible to sweat from, and some places he hadn't known had sweat glands. He also might have peed himself. He wasn't quite sure.

"Nice goin', dummy."

Arnold looked down to see he was still clutching the nameless new dummy. He'd dropped the suitcase full of other puppets as soon as he'd entered the room, but for some reason he'd hung on to the nightmare that had caused all the problems and nearly gotten him shot. And it still had the nerve to-

"You're hurt!" Arnold screamed.

For a human, it would have been a massively bloody, debilitating, disfiguring injury. The bullet had carved a deep furrow the full length of the dummy's cheek.

"It's a flesh wound. Or would be, you know, if I had flesh."

All his anger at the dummy bled away as Arnold ran his finger down the gash. He could fix it, make it disappear-

Or maybe not. It added character. Not that the dummy really needed more of that. What he really needed was...

A name.

"You thinkin' what I'm thinkin', dummy?"

"I think so, Mr. Scarface."

* * *

The End!

Thanks for Reading

And no, the title has nothing to do with a Metallica album.


End file.
